


Not a world that I need

by FangedAngel



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/FangedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of a difficult season, too many questions are still unanswered regarding Nick's future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a world that I need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alixia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=alixia).



> Merry Christmas! I hope you'll like this gift, dear recipient :)

Rain falls, the staccato melody of each drop forming a song composed by nostalgic notes. Your fingertips are tingling with the need to clutch a steering wheel. The season is over, but all you want is to get back in a car; you don't even care what car. You just need a car, need to know you'll be back in Formula One, need to know you'll still be there, that choosing this career path hasn't been the biggest mistake of your life. You need to know that you haven't failed, that all the fighting has been worth it.

It's the first time you've positively hated the off-season. No matter how badly seasons went before, you always came home and disconnected and healed. This time around, you can barely sit still for a second, pacing around the house, checking your mobile phone and e-mail every five seconds, driving Patricia and the children mad.

Mario keeps calling from time to time, checking on you, his tone always annoyingly apologetic as if he expects you to explode and start screaming accusations at him. It's not that you don't feel like blaming everyone for this situation, but you owe Mario more than that. You only wish you'd be left alone. Your manager's voice is the only one you wish to hear, and only if there is good news. You've stopped checking the websites because there are too many rumours to keep count of, a never-ending string of _who's going where_ and _who's buying_ what and _MichaelMichaelMichael_. You're so tired of hearing Michael's name. Why would anyone give a damn about Michael's comeback when you are hanging on to the mere promise of a seat?

You press your palm to the window, your fingers tracing the trail of a raindrop, a sigh escaping you unchecked. It's silent apart from the rain, Patricia and the children having gone to your parents for a quick visit. You've wished for nothing except for solitude lately, but now you miss their presence. They keep you from thinking too much, but now there's no one around to interrupt you, no one to distract you.

You used to be the up-and-coming German star, the next in line to bring your country glory. You used to be unstoppable, on your way up. You used to be noticed, your talent praised, acknowledged, teams calling your manager with offers. You almost went to McLaren. You suppose that's when your career started going downhill, with that opportunity being taken away from you. Your talent was still noticed, but you weren't impressive enough. Most of your teammates ended up outshining you one way or another. Kimi was the first and you can still taste betrayal whenever you let yourself think of what happened then, at Sauber, when you made the mistake of trusting your teammate, of caring about your teammate. You were sure in 2002 that Felipe would never be more successful than you, but now Felipe's at Ferrari and he's talked about all the time, despite the accident that cut his season short.

And then came Robert; Robert, who has barely any worries about his future because Renault isn't the only team that wants him; Robert, who's attracted more media attention than you since his debut season. His driving style is aggressive, spectacular, eye-catching, the kind of style that makes the fans stand up and cheer, whether they're in the grandstand or in front of television screens. Everyone knows you are talented, everyone knows you're constant and elegant, that you can make the car work to its maximum potential even when it's rubbish, that you can drive on rain like no one else. Everyone knows it, but you have felt more and more invisible with each passing day. You enjoy being invisible off-track, away from the spotlight but not on it. Your popularity has gradually faded. You're the one that everyone always trusts to see performing well in races, but who no one really feels all that much about.

The only one watching you at all times during the season was Robert. Always watching, never saying anything about it, just watching, making your skin flush all over, even when your back was turned. You used to talk more, before. You used to laugh together and admire each other in a more outspoken way. It used to be more than smiles and jokes for PR and sponsors, but then Robert went and bitched at the press about how you got the better of everything in the team, and everything stopped being cordial. The team stopped looking at Robert like before, even Mario, and you felt the tension grow, the spark that consumed everything and brought on the polite distance you've become too used to. You don't know why Robert kept watching you, why his presence always lingered wherever you went, why your hands were clammy whenever the two of you got anywhere near each other on track, why you were so aware of Robert being too close during briefings.

It's all been a mess, a chaotic, jumbled mess that culminated with BMW withdrawing from the sport and your future coming crashing down around you, the future that is now hanging on a thread whereas Robert's is perfectly safe. You hate it. You hate him, the way he's managed to take your rightful place just like the others, the way he's crawled under your skin, the way he looked at you, studying you, his eyes lingering on you while enjoying a game of cards with Fernando, lingering on you in the box in between practices. You hate it, the spark in him, the talent that seems to spill out of him. You hated the way you felt his gaze burning you wherever you went, but now you miss it, you miss turning around only to see him watching. It had become routine, and now you need something to anchor you, if only for a second, before this dream of yours ends, the dream of being in this goddamned sport and winning everything you could.

You're not ready to let it go yet, not ready to admit that it's been a failed dream from which you've gained almost nothing but at the same time you're so tired of having to deal with this, with fighting all the time, clinging desperately to seats and five minutes of recognition before plunging back in the notoriety of being there but not shining.

It's taken too much out of you, and he knows it because he's watched you, he's the only one who's paid that much attention, the only one who's seen your demons. The knowledge gives him too much power over you and it makes you hate him even more, up to the point that sometimes all you want to do is grab the phone and call him and tell him everything you think, throw all your rage and pain at him until it's gone.

Your palm clenches into a fist, your eyes closing, and you breathe, deeply, trying to face off the onslaught of emotions. You're usually clinical about this, calm, not easily thrown off course by feelings, but now…now you can hardly recognise yourself.

The doorbell rings, loudly, making you cringe. You're not expecting any visitors and you consider not answering. This window doesn't face the driveway, so you can't be seen, but you haven't lost yourself enough to ignore the politeness embedded in you and you walk to the door, opening it before checking who it is, and you stop short, your eyes widening in unmasked shock. He's never been to your house before and he cuts an unfamiliar figure on your threshold, too lanky in comparison.

"I'm sorry for not calling first. Can I come in?"

You step away from the door, allowing him to pass, not saying a word. His eyes don't leave you for a second in a manner that has become painfully familiar, and you lead the way into the study you've spent all morning in.

"Can I offer you something to drink? Patricia and the kids are away for the day."

You're much too used to being a perfect host to let the shock take over your instinct. He sits in an armchair and declines the offer after you whisk his coat away.

"That's good, I wanted to see you in private."

You sit across from him, your fingers tapping on the arms of your chair while he makes a study of you yet again. You feel colour rising to your cheeks under his scrutiny, but you're ready to blame it on the cheery fire burning in the fireplace close to you.

"I wasn't aware we had anything to discuss."

"We don't. I just wanted to know whether you'd be around next season."

"I'm working on that, Robert. I don't know when I'll find out, but you'll probably know soon afterwards, from the press."

"I don't want to hear it from the press. I want to hear it from you."

He's looking at you the way he did at the final party of the team, the final gathering, the bittersweet official farewell, when you had to step out and press your forehead against the nearest cool wall because it all felt too nightmarishly surreal.

"I don't know what you want from me, Robert. I have no idea where I'll be next season. You think I like this?"

"I know you don't. I've been watching."

"I've noticed."

Your tone is dry and you look away from him to the fire, considering the unlikelihood of this whole situation. You've no idea when this started or when it will end. You don't know if you want it to end.

He moves before you can react, his arms grabbing your shoulders, pulling you up, backing you into the wall, his fingers firm, almost bruising.

It's your turn to look at him now, at his distinctive features, your own fingers curling into his hair, which is dark enough to seem black even in the warm light of the fire.

"What do you want from me?"

Your voice is nothing but a whisper and one of his hands moves from your shoulder to your lips, fingers lingering over your mouth. He's looking at you like he wants to own you and you can barely breathe, the instinct you barely ever let control you fighting with the reason you've always depended on. This is madness. The last time you allowed a teammate to get so close was the biggest mistake of your life. It can't happen again. He's not your teammate anymore, though. Now he's just another enemy, and he seems less threatening than he used to.

"I want you to touch me. I want you to give in to me."

The kiss is perfectly imperfect, and you can't think anymore, you don't want to think anymore, your fingers curling in his shirt, ironically white, pulling him closer to you. The kiss makes you hungry, needy, desperate, and you forget how to move properly for a second because he's taller than you and you're not used to this, and you raise yourself on the tips of your toes only to bump your nose into his in a way that makes you both break away with a gasp and a startled laugh. It's not half as embarrassingly awkward as it should be, and he pulls you back to him into another kiss and you sneak a deep breath in between kissing him before you obey his request. You touch him. You give in to him and it's perfect because he takes everything away, all the uncertainty and the worrying and the unhealthy thoughts.

He takes it all away until all that's left is you and him, the cores of each of you meeting, uniting, fitting together, staying together, and all you can do is hold on and give in because it's all you need.


End file.
